When I was a kid on the Rock, one of my friends turned racketeer and
went into the bicycle-stealing business. He put the heist on six bikes
which he hid in the Indian Caves in Isham Park where the Hessian
deserters holed up during the Revolutionary War. We used to dig for
musket balls and flint arrow heads up there, just a few blocks from the
spot where they found a dead-type dinosaur.
Anyway, my thief friend was too dumb or too honest to sell the bikes,
and the first time he tried to ride one around our neighborhood he
got caught with the stolen goods. He made his getaway and hid in the
caves until dark. Then he sneaked out to make amends and return the
rest of the loot to the rightful owners. This was up at the north end
of The Rock where there were still private homes. Nobody could sleep
that night for the crash of stolen bikes being thrown over fences into
backyards.
Likewise, for the next few days nobody in the business could sleep for
the crash of Lennox switching from the Bad Guys to the Good Guys. He
had a formidable list of antagonists to pacify. He had his Poison Pen
Test to spring without creating any additional hostility. Lennox made
an exuberant try. If he was villainous at times, as Cooper suggested,
he could be heroic when he tried to combat his own villainy. Here are
the highlights of his fight.
* * * * *
He phoned Rox Records, the offices of Suidi, _Le Jazz Hot_, prepared to
do battle with the aid of a French dictionary. He was saved by a Bronx
speaking secretary.
"I think we ought to promote Sam Cooper's hit," Lennox explained. "My
idea is a professional party for Sam. A big name party on Wednesday
or Thursday. You invite your big wheels. I'll invite ours. I've got
a gimmick in mind that might be a natural for publicity. Say you're
celebrating the history of song hits ... starting with someone as far
back as Handy and bringing it down to Cooper. If you could get enough
names there it ought to be worth a double-truck in any magazine."
Rox Records admitted that it certainly ought.
"I want to finance this myself, but don't let Sam know."
They kicked it around enthusiastically and agreed that Lennox would be
permitted to finance a cocktail party for Cooper at the studios of Rox
Records on West 50th Street Thursday next.
* * * * *
Lennox hired a network photographer and took him up to Mason's
apartment on the west side, which is the unfashionable side of The Rock.
The apartment was in a building that had never had a celebrated
tenant from the entertainment business. As a result, the staff was
stage-struck and dying to get into the act. The doorman cultivated a
Low Dutch dialect. His eager expression informed Lennox that he was
ready for Discovery. The elevator man had worked up a comedy monologue
in Irish, Cockney and Chinese. He also was ready. At the top floor,
Lennox rang Mason's doorbell, opened the door and entered with the
photographer. The apartment was never locked.
They came into a bare foyer, the size of a boxing ring. It was ankle
deep in wall-to-wall blue carpeting. Lennox called: "Mig? It's Jake
Lennox." No answer. They went through an archway into a bare living
room the size of a tennis court. It was naked except for wall-to-wall
grey carpeting. "Mig!" Lennox called again. No answer. They peeked into
the dining room and two of the bedrooms, all empty and bare except for
wall-to-wall carpeting.
"Must be out buying furniture," the photographer said.
Lennox shouted again, then listened. He heard the faint sound of music.
They followed it and found Mason in the study. It was the size of a
study with wall-to-wall green carpeting. It was empty except for a
giant TV set with a thirty inch screen in the corner. A silver plate on
it proclaimed that it was the gift of the network to their well-beloved
Mig Mason & Diggy Dixon. Before the set was a bridge table at which
Mason and his wife were seated, silently eating canned hamburgers and
watching the screen.
Mason glanced up. "The Thinker," he said morosely and turned back to
the screen.
"The Thinker," Irma said.
"_Bon appetit._ French for it smells good," Lennox answered cheerfully.
"Mig, I haven't had a chance to congratulate you. You were great
Christmas night. Sensational. It was a great show. Sensational. Your
timing was great. Your gags were sensational. It's great working with
you, Mig. You make any writer look sensational."
"Thanks, Jake." Mason looked modest.
"Thanks," Irma said,
"Was it St. Nicholas?" Mason asked abruptly.
"Of course it was St. Nicholas."
"Then I was right. It was that phone girl that loused me."
"Of course you were right."
"Why didn't you say so?" Mason demanded. "You're all trying to louse
me."
"Did I say you were wrong?"
"You didn't say I was right."
"Because I work for Grabinett. Have a heart, Mig. You're a great star.
You can tell anybody off. But I haven't got your sensational talent. I
have to work for a living. Be kind to the hired help."
The scowl disappeared from Mason's face. It also disappeared from
Irma's face.
"I've brought a photographer for some pictures," Lennox continued
briskly. "We're nominating you for Comedian of The Year, and by God
you're going to be elected."
Mason brightened.
"Not in those clothes," Irma said. "He's got to get dressed up."
"Never mind the clothes," Mason complained. "What about the background?
There's no furniture in the house."
"There's no furniture in the house," Irma told Lennox. A moment later
she added: "It's all being custom built."
"To hell with the furniture," Lennox said. "We don't want formal
pictures. We want behind the scenes shots. What makes a talent great.
Mig in his workshop with the dummy. How he builds Diggy.... How he
paints him.... The tricks he invented.... All that sensational stuff
you showed me, Mig."
"Great! Sensational!" Mason leaped up, delighted. He was prouder
of his mechanical ability than anything else. He led the way into
another enormous room, carpeted from wall to wall, containing a long
carpenter's bench cluttered with tools. Various portions of Diggy
Dixon were scattered on the bench; heads, legs, arms, bodies, eyes.
An open closet was hung with the dummy's wardrobe. Mason's three gag
writers were seated on camp chairs in a tight circle bitching their
competitors.
Lennox greeted them perfunctorily. He had long ago given up all
attempts to communicate with them. Gag writers are alien creatures and
even a casual "Hello" can lead to complications. Their entire lives
boil down to a single-minded search for jokes and it's impossible
to conduct a coherent conversation with them. In thirty-nine weeks
Lennox had never been introduced to the gagmen by Mason, and although
he finally discovered their names, he still identified them as the
Sourball, the Post-Nasal Drip and the Monk. Incidentally, it was the
Sourball who later turned spy.
"Got a sweetheart of a gag, Mig baby," the Monk beamed.
"It stinks," Sourball snapped.
"Try it on him, just for size." The Drip began snuffling in
anticipation: "Hnkhhh...."
"It's a sweetheart, baby. Diggy says to you: 'How's your wife, Mig?'"
"I'll have you know my wife's an angel," Sourball snapped.
"You're lucky! Hnkhhh.... My wife's still living."
Mason looked at them nervously. The truth was, he didn't know a good
gag from a bad one, and was always apprehensive.
"I'm afraid of it, fellas," he said. "Diggy's a wholesome American boy.
He wouldn't make fun of marriage."
He dragged the photographer to the bench. There he demonstrated the
inner workings of his genius ... the dummy's weighted eyes, the
carefully fitted mouth and jaw, the regular body with right-hand
controls for the head, and an extra body with left-hand controls; for
dummies, like baseball gloves, must be fitted to the hand. Mason would
have been in great difficulties last September, he explained, when he
had rheumatism in his working hand, if he hadn't had a left-hand dummy
to switch to.
"Not rheumatism. Neuritis." Sourball said.
"Wait a minute. Room. Attic. Hnkhhh.... Diggy's a poet working in an
attic. Mig's the landlord. He asks Diggy where he could work better,
in a room or attic, and Diggy says: 'That's why I'm bent over my desk.
Rheumatics.'"
"Switch it to neuritis," Sourball snapped. "Diggy's an editor. Mig's
the poet. Mig's sore because Diggy says his poem is old fashioned."
"Right. Right. Hnkhhh.... Mig says: 'Which is better, the old writers
or the new writers?'"
"That's it, sweetheart." The Monk took up the running. "So Diggy
answers: My brother's got that."
"Got what?"
"Hnkhhh.... Neuritis!"
They beamed at their employer.
"I don't know, fellas," Mason said dubiously. "Diggy's a wholesome
American boy. He wouldn't make fun of disease."
Lennox ignored all this and concentrated on the photography business.
There is nothing so sunny as the twinkle of flash bulbs, and by the
time the photographer departed, Mason was suffering from 3rd degree
burns and smiling happily. Lennox felt the time was right for the
attack. He asked for a private conference and Mason sent his writers
into the study. Then he began tinkering with a new head on the bench
and told Lennox to go ahead. Lennox took the photostats out of his
pocket. "Hit him hard," he thought. "Knock him off balance."
"Read these letters," he said in an ominous voice.
Mason took the photostats and read them one by one. Lennox watched him
intently, searching for a give-away expression, a gesture, a sign.
Mason handed the photostats back indifferently and picked up the dummy
head.
"Crazy," he said. "They write like that in subway johns. What do you
think, Jake? Does Diggy's new face look wholesome?"
"Mig! Don't you understand? These are threatening letters. I think
they're written to you. You're in danger."
"Me?" Mason was fascinated. "Me? I never...." He put the dummy down and
stared at Lennox.
"Yes, you. Did you read that last one? There's going to be dynamite
Sunday. I'm here to help you. I want to do all I can. Who's writing
them to you, Mig? Do you know?"
"Sure they're to me. Sure. I should of realized." Mason nodded
with growing conviction. "Stars always get anonymous letters. Like
presidents." He began to get excited. "It hits the fan on the Sunday
show, huh? This is sensational, Jake. Can we have a couple of reporters
there?"
"Reporters!"
"Wait a minute. Wait a minute." Mason grabbed the photostats and ran
through them again. "I just thought of something. Yeah. Here. You
better not let the reporters see this one, Jake. Number three."
"Don't let the reporters see...." Lennox echoed faintly.
"Uh-huh. Keep it back. They'll know I'm not getting the letters if they
see this one, but I ought to be getting them. That Spanish faker was
getting blackmailed every night when he worked The Chert Room and I got
twice his billing."
"You're not getting the letters?"
"Sure I'm getting the letters. Except Number three. Here's the line.
'You east-side so-and-so.' See? This one can't be to me. I live on the
west side. But the reporters don't have to know. Hold that one out on
them." Mason clapped Lennox on the shoulder appreciatively. "If I ever
made a crack about you thinking, Jake, it was only for laughs. You got
a head on you I admire. We'll get a spread out of this if we get any
action Sunday. I tell you what. Let's be smart. Hire a guy. I bet you
thought of that already, huh, Thinker?"
"Hire a guy? For what?"
"In case this one don't show up. Write a little script for him and
we'll have him stand by in the house. If we don't get any action by the
final comedy spot you can cue him in and he'll give us a production."
Mason began to laugh. "I just thought of a great ad lib for Diggy when
this guy starts the fuss. Diggy says--"
"Mig! For God's sake! This is serious. The letters are legitimate. The
threat's legitimate too. Don't you understand?"
"Great, Sensational. Then we won't have to use the stand-in. But have
him there anyway. Jake, I love ya!"
Lennox made his escape. He was thunderstruck by Mason's reaction, then
indignant, finally amused.
"One down. Five to go," he muttered and continued the campaign.
* * * * *
He phoned Tooky Ween and made peace.
"Tooky? Jake Lennox. I've got a promotion in mind for your property
that I'd like to discuss."
"Which property?" Ween rumbled in a hostile voice.
"Far as I'm concerned you've only got one hot property. The great man.
Mig."
"What's the promotion, Lennox?" Ween asked, a little more affably.
"Sam Cooper's got a hit tune just breaking. That duet he wrote for Mig
and the dummy."
"What duet?"
"'We're The Most.'"
"That's a hit?"
"On the way. Here's my idea. Mason & Dixon brought the tune out.
How about using their picture on the sheet music? Might be a nice
promotion."
"That ain't bad, Jake. Ain't a sour note in the whole notion." Ween was
back to first names again and definitely friendly.
"It's only a suggestion. I've got nothing to do with it, but I can ask
Sam for you."
"Thanks, Jake. It could do Cooper a lot of good. My boy could double
his sales. So 'We're The Most' is socko, huh? Who's handling Cooper?"
"Nobody."
"A boy like that needs handling, Jake."
Lennox laughed. "That's between you and Cooper. They're giving him a
promotion party at Rox Studios Thursday. Come on over. There'll be
names and photographers, so bring your properties too. You can talk it
up with Sam between flashes."
* * * * *
Kay Hill received him in her east side Early American apartment,
conducted him through a Colonial hall to a Federal parlor where she
seated him on a Duncan Phyfe couch. Her dark green dressing gown
clashed with the background, but set off her acid eyes and acid red
hair.
"Men," she spat in her strange clipped accent. "Bloody lice! They only
come when they're hungry. What are you after, Lennox?"
"Trouble," Lennox said.
"We'll pickle it first. What's your brew?" Before he could answer she
made a couple of drinks, handed him one and finished hers.
"When was the last time you were here, Lennox?"
"This is the first."
"They keep passing through. I lose count." She opened a window, then
closed the drapes with a savage flick. She blew dust off pewter
tankards and opened and slammed drawers. "I've been asked for plenty
in my life but they never called it trouble." She shuffled a deck of
cards once. "They've had it but never asked for it."
"I'm not asking, Kay."
"No? You're here, aren't you?" She cupped his chin in her hand, smiled
contemptuously, then slapped him. "We'll pickle it."
She went to the bar. "Christ, it's bloody hot. D'you want ice?"
"No thanks."
"There isn't any anyway." She pulled irritably at the dressing gown
until it opened, displaying a black bra and black panties. She fretted
around the room, the green gown trailing behind her.
"Are you English?" Lennox asked.
"Are you starting something?"
"I want to know."
"I'm English. Now you know."
"The dialect bothers me."
"Not dialect, Lennox." Her speech became more clipped and more English.
"It's called an accent, darling. I have most unfortunately acquired a
dreadful American accent. Mummy and Daddy will be terribly amused when
I come home from the States." She dropped the English. "We'll pickle
it."
She made another pair of drinks.
"Jesus, Kay!" Lennox protested. She finished both, came to him and
sat on his lap. Lennox was startled when he noticed her eyes were
terrified. She was desperate.
"Make a pass, Lennox," she said.
"Are you putting me on?"
"No. You're putting me off."
She got up. Lennox caught her wrist and pulled her down alongside him.
"Do you know why I'm here?" he asked.
"I don't give a bloody bug why you're here."
"What's eating you out?"
"You don't give a bloody bug what's eating me out. We'll pickle it."
"Not now, we won't. There's something else first."
"I've changed my mind."
"I haven't." Lennox drew out the photostats and handed them to her.
"Read these."
"What?"
"Read them."
She began to shriek with laughter. "Read these, he says." She rocked
around the room, neighing hysterically. Lennox went after her, took her
by the shoulders and slammed her into a chair.
"You're petrified," he growled, "and I think I know why. Read those
letters, damn you, and we'll find out."
She wiped her eyes with the hem of the dressing gown and read the
photostats. Lennox watched her closely. Her face reflected every word
she was reading. Her body reflected her face. She was savage, sick,
vicious, threatening. For the length of all six letters she was the
writer of those letters. She was completely identified. When she came
to the end she looked at Lennox.
"Who's writing them, Kay?"
"How should I know?"
"They're to you, aren't they?"
"No."
"Don't lie, damn you. You're halfway into a strait jacket and this is
what's doing it to you."
She smiled wearily. "Clever Jordan Lennox. Mummy's favorite bright
boy." She got up and kissed his brow chastely. "We'll pickle it."
Lennox followed her to the bar. "They're written to you, Kay. I came up
here to help you out, but you've got to level with me. Who's writing
them? Who's threatening you?"
"I told you. I don't know."
"This isn't anything to fool with, Kay. It's loaded with dynamite and
it's set to go off Sunday."
"What the hell do I care what happens Sunday," she blazed. "The whole
damned show can bloody off Sunday. Give me the damned letters." She
snatched the photostats from him. "They're not to me. Look at this line
in Number four. 'You black-headed lying etcetera.' Is that me?" She
jabbed at her red hair angrily. "That's red. It's always been red. If
you don't believe me I can show you the convincer. Go look for somebody
else, Lennox."
Lennox examined the line silently, then put the photostats away. When
he looked at Kay again, she was smiling crookedly, her eyes still
terrified.
"What d'you say, Lennox?"
"On my way."
"I've changed my mind again."
"No you haven't."
"One for the road?"
"No thanks."
"Christ, you're a bloody Square, Lennox."
"I guess everybody is, one way or another."
"Mummy's favorite model boy. That's the way out." She waved her arm
indifferently. "My love to your model roommate, Sam Stacy."
"Stacy! Is that it, Kay? Oliver Stacy?" Lennox stepped to her and took
her shoulders. "Is he what's eating you out?"
"It was a slip. I meant Cooper. Sam Cooper, of course. I always get his
name mixed up with Oliver's. Let go of me, Lennox. Damn you, let go of
me."
"Is it Stacy?"
"To hell with Stacy. It was a slip, I tell you. Slip of the tongue...."
She began to shake and clung to him. "My God, Lennox. My God! I haven't
seen him in two weeks, outside rehearsal. 'Good morning. Good night.
Take it from the top. Cue, please. Take your cross after I say the
line. Oh Jesus, Lennox, what's he doing to me?"
"Running up a score, Kay. Face it."
"You son of a bitch!" Kay wrenched herself out of his arms. "You're
gloating too, aren't you? All of you. Counting up your scores. Get
lost, Lennox. Get lost fast!"
Lennox got lost fast. Down on the street he murmured: "But she's the
one who's lost. Lost in the tunnels. At least I gave her a half hour's
entertainment. Balance! Two down and four to go."
* * * * *
It so happened that my wife was in Raeburn Sachs' office when Lennox
dropped in. She had been called down unexpectedly. Sachs' wife, a
discouraged creature with a sagging figure, led Robin down a twisting
corridor in Grabinett's offices to the brain room where Sachs operated.
He directed all Grabinett's shows.
Sachs was thin, dry-blond, with bulging blue eyes and a mid-western
twang. He liked to be overworked and fatigued, and the first impression
he gave was of a bone-weary man calling on genius to surmount
exhaustion. Later, you imagined you had received the wrong impression,
but you really hadn't. It was Sachs who changed. His thyroid began
popping and everything else in addition to his eyes bulged.
He was slumped in a chair wearing a crushed pin-stripe suit and
drinking chicken soup out of a carton when Robin entered. He lifted his
head wearily, smiled, then called to his wife.
"The song is out. I've just remembered it isn't in the P.D."
"The legal department said it is," Mrs. Sachs answered in a discouraged
voice.
"They're wrong. Oh yes. Make a note. We'll need three extra costumes
and a magician. No Mind Acts. They're not televisionwise. I want a
different Sawing A Woman In Half. Something fresh."
Mrs. Sachs made notes.
"Also a dog act. Call the music department and see if we can get a
small band arrangement of Piston's 'Incredible Flautist.'"
"Why?" Mrs. Sachs asked.
"Because it's scored for dog barks," Sachs answered as though that
explained everything. Apparently it did. His wife moused out and closed
the door. Sachs smiled at Robin.
"Always rushed," he said wearily. "This is last night's dinner."
He finished the soup, got up and slouched around Robin, examining
her sleepily. "Yes. Yes, I see. The Hedda Gabler type." Suddenly
he crouched at the desk, yanked out a bottom drawer and threw his
handkerchief in. "'_Now I'm burning your child, Thea! Burning it,
curly-locks!_' Manuscript into the stove business." He threw in
his small change and a pack of cigarettes. "'_Your child and Eilet
Lövborg's. I am burning--I am burning your child!_' Slow curtain."
Robin gaped at him.
Sachs smiled and stood up. "Or Marguerite," he said, stroking her
blonde hair. "'_Ich gäb was drum, wenn ich nur wüsst'. Wer heut' der
Herr gewesen ist!_' Comb business at the mirror. Which show are you
here for?"
"You called me down," Robin said. "Don't you know?"
"I'm directing four shows." Sachs smiled patiently. "Which are you?"
"Who He?"
"Oh yes. Yes. I see. You're ... Robin. Lennox gave you the call. It's
about the costumes." Sachs hitched a hip onto the corner of the desk,
smiled cheerfully, and began flicking the hem of Robin's skirt with his
toe. "They were smaller in the early nineteenth century. Much smaller.
Have you seen the models in the Dress Museum? We're having trouble with
those Philip Nolan costumes. I think we're going to have trouble with
you."
"With me? How?"
Sachs reached back and picked up a printed card. It was the
conventional file card actresses send to all offices with pictures,
measurements and credits printed on it. This one happened to be Robin's.
"I checked your card," Sachs said. "It's the bust that worries me.
Thirty-six. I see you weren't exaggerating. Are you married?"
"Yes."
"Any children?"
"No."
"Too bad."
"Why too bad? What's it have to do with--"
"Children make the bust sag. You're probably too firm to get into our
costumes. Take 'em out."
"What!"
"Take 'em out. Let me see them. If they're not too high we won't have
any problems."
"Are you kidding?"
"Come on, come on, Robin. Take 'em out."
"You're crazy."
"This is a pictorial medium," Sachs explained patiently. "You've got
to audition three-dimensionally. Now don't waste my time, Robin. We've
pulled the Nolan costumes already and I've got to find the women to fit
them."
The phone rang. Sachs picked it up, meanwhile snapping his fingers
impatiently at Robin's bust. "Yes? Not now. I'm busy." He flipped the
phone and caught it neatly on the cradle. "Took three lessons from W.
C. Fields," he smiled, then brayed: "'_Master Copperfield, under the
impression that your peregrinations in this metropolis have not as yet
been extensive, and that you might have some difficulty in penetrating
the arcana of the Modern Babylon...._' Come on, Robin. Come on. Get 'em
out."
There was a knock on the door.
"Go away," Sachs called.
The knocking was repeated.
"'_Here's a knocking indeed!_'" Sachs intoned in Shakespearean
diapason. He snatched up the desk lamp and began to hobble. "Lantern
business. '_If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old
turning the key. Knock, knock, knock! Who's there i'th' name of
Belzebub?_'"
"Jake Lennox. I've got to see you. Won't take a minute."
"Wait," Sachs told Robin. He put down the lamp and called: "Come in.
I'm starting the clock."
Lennox entered the brain room and was surprised to see Robin. He
greeted her and Sachs, then said: "This won't take long, but I'm afraid
it'll have to be in private. Do you mind, Robin?"
"No. It's a pleasure," Robin said through her teeth. She stalked out of
the office and slammed the door.
"Something?" Lennox asked Sachs.
"Temperament," Sachs answered wearily. He picked up the phone. "Tell
the actress to wait in the reception room." He hung up.
Lennox took out the photostats and thrust them at Sachs. "Read these,"
he said sharply.
Sachs glanced at the photostats casually, five seconds to each letter,
then slouched to his desk chair and slumped into it, regarding Lennox
with tired eyes.
"I said read them," Lennox snapped.
"I've read them," Sachs answered. "I have a photographic memory."
He quoted random lines from the letters, then smiled patiently.
"Satisfied?"
It occurred to Lennox that Sachs must have examined the letters in
Blinky's safe at another time. That killed the shock value and there
was no point in calling his bluff.
"They're written to you, aren't they?"
"I don't like your Sunday drama spot, Jake. The Philip Nolan. It's
weak."
"Stay with the threats, will you? They're no drama spots."
"'_Damn the United States. I wish that I would never hear the name
again._' Dolly in to close-up. Yes. Your scene's out of focus. There's
a value missing."
"Focus on the letters. Who's threatening you?"
"What?" Recalled from his visions, Sachs gazed at Lennox with faraway
eyes.
"You're faking," Lennox said savagely. "And you're not kidding me
with the act. These letters were written to you. You're the one who's
putting the show on a spot."
"They're not written to me."
"I don't believe you."
"Isn't it obvious?" Sachs said wearily. "What's that line from Number
Two? Yes. 'You fancy college cess-pool....' And so on. I'm no college
man. That's why I've still got my talent. '_A set o' dull conceited
hashes confuse their brains in college classes!_' What are we going to
do about Sunday?"
"I don't know," Lennox said in disgust, returning the photostats to his
pocket. "I'm doing the best I can with what I've got. Amateur. I should
have stayed out of the act. Maybe the police can do better."
"If I could whip you into coming up with something fresh, I'd throw out
the Nolan. A different 'Monkey's Paw' or--That's an idea! Instead of
three wishes, make it three New Year's resolutions."
"Lay off, will you. There's nothing wrong with the Philip Nolan."
"It isn't televisionwise, Jake."
"It's as televisionwise as any book can be when you compress it into
five minutes."
"Don't argue with me, Jake." Sachs spoke in deadly earnest. "I have one
talent in this business, and that's all. It terrifies me because it's
subconscious and I can't control it. It's a quality that nobody else
has.... I'm never wrong."
Lennox was speechless. He opened his mouth, closed it and fled from the
brain room. Robin was waiting for him in the outer reception office
where she told him her experience with Sachs in an indignant whisper.
Lennox took Robin out of the office.
"Don't go back," he told her. "And don't worry. You've got the job.
If Sachs gives you a hard time just call me. I'll take care of it."
Suddenly he grinned and pinched her bottom. "This is a new role for me,
Robin. I've been thinking of chasing you into bed for a year and here I
am protecting you. Turns me into a pimp for virtue, doesn't it?"
"Why don't you chase me a little," Robin said wickedly. "I'm curious
about you."
"I'll take a rain check."
"I've got a rival?"
Lennox nodded.
"Who she?"
He shook his head.
"How're your chances?"
"It's all reversed," Lennox said in a confused voice. "We started where
most chases end and now we're working our way to the beginning."
"Like running a movie backwards?"
"Exactly. I used to wonder what happened to those people who had to
marry each other before they met. Now I know. It's exciting, Robin.
It's wonderful, but it scares hell out of you. Christ, love is mixed up
on The Rock."
"You got that from Kit. His favorite theme: Life and Death on The Rock."
"Death," Lennox repeated. He took a breath. "No. Three down. Three to
go."
He departed.
* * * * *
He talked treason with Ned Bacon and made peace.
"I'll back you for director, of course," Lennox said. "And I think
I've got the lever you can use to pry Sachs loose." He told him about
Robin's adventure. "All she has to do is report that to her union and
Sachs is through. It's your ace in the hole. My contribution to the
conspiracy, but don't expect anything more. I've got these letters and
threats hanging over me."
"You're not alone," Bacon said. "Why didn't you holler down the
rainbarrel? I know the gimpster score. Let's hear all about it."
He heard about it, then drawled with a cynical expression: "Yep. Yep.
We did it last year on 'The People Against--' I know every angle. This
is how we broke the case." He instructed Lennox and Jake listened
patiently to little known facts about blood sugar that could turn a
normal man into a sex maniac, or perhaps it was the other way around.
"I got that from a police toxicologist," Bacon confided. "We went to
the theater together and he sat there and diagnosed everybody on the
stage. Just called the shots. Diabetic. Cancer prone. Tubercular.
Multiple Sclerotic...."
"Just by looking at them from his seat? I don't believe it."
"Jake," Bacon said kindly. "Come back from the Reichenbach Falls.
There's a new thing they invented called medicine. Dr. Watson'll tell
you all about it."
Again Lennox submitted patiently. He permitted Bacon to instruct him on
the iniquities of The Marketplace and to educate him from the bonded
warehouse of Bacon's profound experience. At the end of an hour, little
Bacon felt two inches taller than Lennox and their cordial relationship
was once more restored.
* * * * *
Between twelve and twenty, most boys have a fantasy of the kind of life
they would like to lead when they become independent. It's composed
of equal parts of Alexander Dumas, Richard Harding Davis and Mickey
Spillane. Some of us outgrow this romantic vision. The ones that don't
come roving to The Rock to turn the fantasy into reality. That's why
life here is half crystallized adolescence.
Oliver Stacy had a penthouse in a converted brownstone in the east
sixties. He was waiting for Lennox at the top of the stairs, dark,
hollow-cheeked, romantic in black slacks, black silk shirt and black
cummerbund. He looked like an illustration from a historical novel.
He gave Lennox the strong, silent hand-clasp and took him into his
apartment.
Lennox looked around wistfully. He was transported back to the
daydreams of his own boyhood. The floor was polished oak, the walls
creamy, the ceiling beamed and lost in shadows. There was a half
finished canvas on an easel before the bay window, a self-portrait of
Stacy as an officer in the French Foreign Legion. Alongside it was a
lay figure on which was draped a uniform cape and a kepi. Stacy thrust
a finger through a hole in the shoulder of the cape.
"Nine millimeter Mauser," he murmured. "The toughest thing we had to
buck in the desert."
Two Italian epees were crossed over a blood-stained plastron with
masks and gloves under them. A Luger and a Colt revolver lay on the
mantlepiece. There was a cannel coal fire burning in the grate. A
coffee table before the fire bore a bucket of ice in which reclined a
bottle of champagne. On a couch behind the table reclined an exquisite
little ingénue wearing a blue velvet dinner gown trimmed with miniver.
The fire and candles were the only illumination. A phonograph was
playing the "Rosenkavalier" waltzes.
"Drink?" Stacy inquired lazily. He uncorked the champagne bottle deftly
and filled glasses.
"No thanks."
Stacy and the girl drank, gazing into each other's eyes over the
glasses.
Lennox said: "If you'll just give me a minute, Oliver. Alone?"
Stacy brushed the girl's palm with his lips, then took Lennox into a
fitted dressing room hung with a dozen framed water-colors. They were
nudes; all signed O.S. One of them bore a faint resemblance to Kay
Hill. It was convincingly red-headed.
"It's about blackmail, Oliver."
"Pay with a gun."
"What?"
"The barrel of a gun across the bridge of a nose," Stacy spread his
shoulders lazily. "I learned that lesson in Morocco."
"You've had experience before?"
"I've had every experience."
"Then read these." Lennox whipped out the photostats and handed them
to Stacy who read them carefully, a lazy smile curling his mouth. His
expression never changed.
"Threats," he said at last. "The ones that mean business never write."
"They don't scare you?"
"Nothing scares me."
"Who's writing them, Oliver?"
"Don't you know?"
"No."
"I thought you came to borrow a gun."
"Were they written to you?"
"To me?" Stacy shook his head slightly. "I've got enemies. A man's
enemies. We know each other. We don't have to be anonymous." Stacy
spread his shoulders. "I'll pack a gun to the theater Sunday. I'll back
your play, Jake. I can break a nose."
"I think they're to you, Oliver."
"What difference does it make? I'm making it my fight."
"I don't want a fight. We've got enough trouble as it is. I want to
avoid a fight."
"You never can, Jake. As soon as you realize that you'll grow up."
Stacy smiled lazily. "You go around the world and you learn one thing.
It's all a fight, and the only way to keep from losing is to win."
"Oliver, if you're so hot for breaking noses, will you for God's sake
find him and break it before Sunday."
"No trouble at all, Jake. Tell me where he is."
"I don't know. You do."
"Not me."
"These letters are to you. You fit the description.... Dark man.
Elegant. Live on the east side. Went to college...."
"But not a vestal virgin."
"What?"
"I thought it was obvious. Didn't you notice it in the letter? Right
here. He's written: 'You vomit virgin with your Judas morals....' Is
that me, Jake?" Stacy pointed to the nudes on the wall. "Would anybody
who knows me call me virginal ... moralistic?"
"Jesus Christ!" Lennox exclaimed furiously. "If it's not you, then who?
Who the hell is getting these letters?"
"Look for a coward."
"Why a coward?"
"Because a coward's writing them. You go around the world, Jake, and
you learn another thing. There's class distinction in everything. You
love your own kind and you hate your own kind. The jackals hate the
jackals. They don't dare hate a lion."
Lennox waved the photostats impatiently.
"Why worry?" Stacy smiled. "Let him come to the show Sunday. We'll be
waiting. It might be interesting."
"Interesting!" Lennox snorted. "God knows what's going to happen to
who. It could be anything from a gun to a bomb. Is that your idea of
interesting?"
"It's the only idea, unless you play poker for matchsticks."
"I don't play poker," Lennox said, and left.
Going down the brownstone stairs, he growled: "Four down. Two to go.
It's either Plummer or Hansel. The advantage of statistics. Poker for
matchsticks! Are they all crazy?"
* * * * *
I met Lennox in a network studio where he took advantage of an
unexpected opportunity to make peace with Roy Audibon. The veep had
gathered the leading script writers for one of his annual exhortations
on the aims, needs and ideals of the network and the position of
television in the Expanding Universe. Audibon's theme that afternoon
was the fact that we writers were the bottle-neck in the flow of
progress because we refused to think galactically.
I won't try to reproduce Audibon's lecture. He has to be seen and heard
to be appreciated. He's charming and attractive and successful. He is
also a unique product of American culture ... the erudite ignoramus.
He discourses entertainingly in a jargon of advertising slang, science
fiction clichés and pocket book philosophy. He can mix phrases like
"cross-ruff client expediency" "fourth dimensional cybernetics" and
"the Hegelian dialectics of The Thirty Years War" in one sentence and
hypnotize you into believing that he's making sense. It isn't until you
listen that you realize he's just talking out loud.
We all sat and kept our faces straight while Audibon drew a picture
of the soaring, searching minds of the top network brass seeking
the uppermost cultural levels for television only to be blocked and
thwarted by the conservatism and lack of imagination of the writers.
"There are new techniques, new philosophies, new infinities to
explore," Audibon told us. "Reach out to the stars. Don't be afraid to
experiment in your garret. We may loathe what you do. We'll probably
reject nine out of every ten scripts you send us, but that doesn't mean
we're opposed to new ideas. We want new ideas. We need them. It's up
to you to produce them in acceptable form for the network and clients."
When he finished we gave him a friendly hand and prepared to go about
our business. Unfortunately a non-professional element had slipped into
the meeting and they were either too ignorant or too indignant to go
along with the joke. They got up and began filing beefs. They attacked
Audibon politically, philosophically, and most of all financially. What
it all boiled down to was: How dast he make a speech like that when the
network kept rejecting all the wonderful scripts they sent in, and took
six months to reject each script?
We squirmed in embarrassment. Audibon got red in the face and his
replies to the hecklers became shorter and more cutting. Then an
astonishing thing happened. Jake Lennox got to his feet, turned on the
hecklers and blasted them. He was sardonic and icy; he took them apart,
politically, philosophically and financially. They were so stunned it
broke up the meeting. I saw Audibon step down from the studio stage,
go over to Lennox, smile and shake his hand emphatically, Lennox
grinned back. They spoke for a moment, laughed, shook hands again and
were separated by the low network brass who surrounded Audibon. Lennox
caught my eye, made a drink motion, and I nodded.
In Sabatini's we belted down a couple of Gibsons before I had the
courage to bring up Jake's defense of Audibon.
"We won't discuss it," he said. "I turned whore to square that lunch
hassle the other day. Which reminds me. I owe you money." He forced me
to take two tens.
He brooded. His expression was contemptuous.
"Don't let it eat you out, Jake," I said. "We all whore. What were we
doing listening to Audibon but whoring?"
"It isn't that," Lennox answered. "It's the Poison Pen test. That was a
bomb. You were right, Kitten. I'm an amateur. I should have stayed out
of the act."
"What happened?"
"I showed the photostats to all of them, looking for a sign ... a
give-away. You remember what I told you about Fink?"
"Yes. So?"
"You think those letters knocked them off balance? Hell, they loved
them. They ate 'em up. It's like those arsenic eaters of yours."
"Poison eaters?"
He nodded. "Poison eaters. They're mixed up. Sick in the head. But
trouble doesn't bother them. They live on trouble. They feed on it.
Can't do without it. They've got to have a diet that would kill a
normal man."
"All of them?"
"All of them."
"Not one knocked off balance?"
"Not one out of six. And just to show you what an amateur I am, each
one found something in the letters I hadn't noticed.... Something that
proved they couldn't be getting them."
"What?"
"Oh.... Like ... Charlie Hansel found a line that showed the letters
are being written to someone who's big. Charlie's a midget, you know
that. Plummer noticed something about a loudmouth. And you know how
quiet Johnny stammers. He's always whispering the latest from the
Kremlin."
"Kay Hill's loud."
"But she isn't dark."
"Stacy's dark."
"But he isn't moralistic. They've all got outs. I don't know who
the hell's getting the threats. I'm no better off than I was when I
started." He shrugged. "It shows you, Kitten. Everybody imagines they
can do anybody else's job much better. It isn't until you try that you
find out. Damn it! I'm licked. All I can do is hope Fink'll pull us out
of this jam before Sunday."
"Tell me what everybody said when you pulled the letters on them."
"To hell with it."
"Let's write down how each one eliminated himself. Maybe we can add
them up and find something."
After some persuasion and another drink he gave me the facts. I wrote
them down in a column:
Big
Dark
Loud
Moralistic
Went to college
Fancy and elegant
Lives on the East side
"Look at this," I said.
Lennox looked.
"Who does it add up to?"
"I don't know."
"I've got news for you," I said. "You may be an amateur, and it may not
be as easy as we think to do another man's job, but you've done the
job. You've found out who's getting the letters. The only trouble is,
you're worse off than when you started."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You."
"What about me?"
"You're the guy who's getting the letters."
He stared at me, looked at the list, then looked up again.
"This adds up to me?" he whispered.
I nodded.
"Loud?"
"They can hear you from the Bronx to the Battery."
"Fancy? Elegant?"
"As Mike Romanoff."
"Moralistic?"
"As a Puritan."
"This is me? This is the way you see me?"
"Yes."
He got up without another word and walked out. I don't know what
staggered him most ... the realization that he was the man being
threatened, or the picture of himself as other people saw him. But I
was right about one thing. He was a lot worse off than when he started.